


Sacrificial Offerings

by Skalidra



Series: 100 Prompts [28]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Human Sacrifice, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7868878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason is a god of war, with Roy as both his loyal consort and pretty much the only thing that keeps him answering the prayers for his help instead of giving up on humanity entirely. It's tempting, because the humans have decided that his preferred method of worship is sacrifice, and he can't stand it. Especially when it comes in the form of talented warriors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrificial Offerings

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Coming back around with another of the 100 prompts. This one is 7, 'Heaven'. The request was for some JayDami, but there's some established JayRoy in here too (he wasn't supposed to be, it just sorta happened). Enjoy!

It pings on the edge of his awareness like the buzz of a particularly insistent bug, and he rolls over and stretches out with a grumble, burying his head into one of the pillows of his nest of a bed. He’s reluctant to even acknowledge the summoning prayer echoing softly in his ears, let alone consent to actually appear and hear out whatever the people who sing it want from him. He gets too many prayers asking for his help, his blessing, a show of force to scare enemies into retreat. Sometimes he gets sick of how _much_ mortals try to kill each other, and over such petty and stupid things so much of the time.

He grumbles into his pillow, and then a warm hand slides up his back, hot skin blanketing over his side as lips touch the back of his shoulder. His consort hums something soft and playful into his skin, long hair brushing over his back and a leg nudging between his knees. He pushes up into the touch an inch or so, heat sliding down under his skin as it always does when his consort touches him.

“Got a call?” the man at his back asks, and he grumbles a sound that probably counts as confirmation. “Take a look?” his consort asks.

He shoves out a sigh, and pushes up enough that he can flip over onto his back. “Mortals are lucky you’re here,” he murmurs, reaching up to run a hand through the long red hair of what might just be the best consort he’s ever had.

Roy, a talented archer that was offered as tribute by the men he worked next to. They almost killed one of their best warriors just to ask for his blessing in a war they couldn’t win, as if sacrificing one of their best was actually going to _help_ them. Sacrificing a warrior like Roy wasn’t just stupid, it was insulting to everything that he is. Warriors deserve to die with honor, with a weapon in their hand, and every bit of him rebels against the idea of having those warriors strapped down and killed just for the hope of _pleasing_ him. Even the more common sacrifices he’s given, the ones of defeated enemies, still turn his stomach, even though he knows by now that he has little to do with their deaths. His name is a convenient excuse to kill people they don’t like.

He killed the leader of the men that tried to sacrifice Roy, cursed most of the rest, and took the bloody, would-be tribute away from them. Roy wasn’t nearly as resistant to the idea of staying in his world as most mortals are, and most days he believes that Roy is more in control of him than he is in control of his consort, despite the fact that _he’s_ the god between them.

“Entire world is lucky I’m here,” Roy counters, with an easy grin and a hand tracing mindless patterns low on his stomach. “Go on; check who wants your attention, Jay.”

He snorts, but closes his eyes and follows the echo of prayers to its source, sending his mind abroad to look. They get louder, the prayers solidifying into chanting, into the pound of drums. The room snaps into focus.

It’s old stone, lit by torches, with hooded figures he recognizes as the people that call himself his priests. One man stands higher than the rest, up on stone steps and the source of the loudest voice among the chanting. In front of that man — grey hair, sharp green eyes, robed in expensive clothing but the sword strapped to his waist is good quality and worn familiarly — is a stone table, ornate and well carved, and on it is…

His eyes snap open as his mouth curls into a snarl, and Roy shifts off of him even as he pushes up off the bed, shoulders curling in and _anger_ rising from the pit of his stomach. Roy’s hand presses against his low back, sitting close to him but not against him, not anymore.

“Fucking _sacrifices_ ,” he spits. “When are people going to figure out I don’t _like_ it?”

Roy, instead of even trying to answer or pacify him, just says, “Go.” The hand retreats from his back as another slides up through his hair, turning his head until Roy’s forehead presses to his, green eyes taking up his whole world. “Go, my god,” his consort breathes. “ _Show them_.”

He’s released, and for a moment he wants to lean back in, to stay with his consort and enjoy the more mortal pleasures offered, but the prayers still echo in his ears and that brings the _anger_ back. So he gives a small nod and draws back, closing his eyes again and _willing_ himself to follow those prayers, and for clothes to form around his limbs. Hard black and blood red leather, his blades, his boots, and every bit of cloth that makes it bearable. Not his armor, but he is a _god_ and he needs to look the part, especially when he’s facing down people that have displeased him.

He feels the pull of the world, of the divide between realms, and focuses on that prayer. With a slide, a tug behind his heart and in his gut, he feels himself settle in the mortal world, drums pounding in his ears and the chanting rebounding off the walls. It goes silent as he opens his eyes, the entire room falling to a hush. He ignores the rest of the room, and sets his gaze on the man standing at the head of it.

Everyone else in the room is still as he walks forward, up the stone steps at the end of the hall and to the other side of the stone table, facing the man at the other side.

The man smiles — curling, satisfied, _oily_ — and then bows his head, eyes staying locked on his even as the man’s right hand rises and lightly touches his heart in a mockery of fealty. “My lord,” the man says, straightening back up with the same smooth, graceful glide.

“Mortal,” he answers, keeping his voice tightly controlled and not as angry as he wants to be.

His short answer doesn’t seem to phase the man, because that smile stays and that hand sweeps down, gesturing at the table. “My tribute to you, my lord. For whatever you desire.”

He holds the man’s gaze for another moment, then lets his gaze lower to the table. There’s a young man tied down to it, nude, dark lines of blood marking his chest, arms, and legs — painted on, not drawn from cuts. Darker skin, jade eyes, short black hair. Tall, long and lean, with defined muscle dampened by sweat. He can see the redness where his intended sacrifice has been pulling against the leather binds, and there’s a leather gag between the man’s teeth; this is _not_ a willing sacrifice. His gaze lowers further, and the _anger_ comes back when his gaze falls between the sacrifice’s legs, to the hard, flushed cock on display there. Bound.

The ‘tribute’ is pretty, gorgeous even, but the idea that he’d take his pleasure from someone unwilling like some kind of _animal_ …

“What do you want?” he asks, refusing to let his voice show the anger he feels. Not yet.

The man at the other side of the table clearly takes it as acceptance of his sacrifice, because his voice is rich with satisfaction, even though the tone also sounds like fake humility. He can _see_ the smugness in the man’s green eyes, the confidence that he’s already won, and he wants to wipe it away. He isn’t something to be _bought_ , and definitely not with the life or blood of a person. Not like this.

“Your blessing, great lord, for my coming war. Your favor, so my men remain strong and find victory.” The man leans forward slightly, hands bracing against the table and voice lowering to something promising and dark. “My men will praise your name, offer you whatever portions of their bounty you ask, give you as many prisoners as you care to take, living or dead. They will paint the walls of your temple with blood, if you ask.”

His jaw sets, but he doesn’t strike. Not _yet_.

“What makes you think this boy is worth any of that?” he asks, stepping to the side and circling up towards his sacrifice’s head, reaching out a hand.

The words, “He’s my grandson,” stop him in his tracks, and his gaze snaps up to the man, hand stopping short of that black hair.

_Fury_ sings in his veins, so he drops his gaze to the sacrifice instead, completing those last couple inches and stroking his fingers through short, damp black hair. _Power_ snaps at his fingertips and he pauses, studying the eyes looking up at him; glaring, actually. There’s something…

“A bastard,” the man continues, apparently taking his silence as a request for more information, “true, but he’s my named heir. His mother was my daughter; his father is unknown. He’s strong, a fierce soldier trained since childhood, in excellent health, and relatively unmarked given his training. I give him to you as tribute. Do whatever you like to him, my lord; he is yours. I ask for favor; not in return, but for whatever price you decide on.”

He knows the feeling of the power snapping at his fingertips. _Demigod_ ; which is a fun explanation of an unknown father.

He withdraws his hand, and then looks up at the man standing across from him. “Your name?”

Another oily smile. “Ra’s al Ghul. This—” a flick of a hand towards the bound man “—is Damian.”

He hums acknowledgement, and then forces himself to sound calm when he tastes the name on his tongue. “Ra’s…” He braces his hands on the table too, meeting Ra’s straight on as he lowers his voice and _finally_ lets his anger slide into his tone. “My favor is not a thing to be _bought_.”

Ra’s blinks, and then recovers and bows his head to murmur, “Apologies, my lord. A poor turn of phrase. I—”

“I’m not some beast howling for blood, _mortal_.” He lets his voice darken, lets power infuse his words and _shake_ the room. “You think I’m nothing but rage and violence? You think you can buy my favor with wealth and fame and the promise of _death_ in my name? I am a _god!_ ” The stone cracks beneath his hands, and he bares his teeth and snarls, “I’ve known treasures you can’t even imagine. I’ve planned battles you only know from legends, commanded armies you’ll never see the like of, stood at the side of kings and generals and whispered victories into their ears.”

He lowers his voice again, and demands, “What part of all of that makes you think I _want_ warriors sacrificed in my name? Is the violence and the indiscriminate death of anyone you call a foe all you know of war, mortal? Is that the only part of it you think I represent? If you think that the way to gain my favor is by killing your most powerful soldiers like _cattle,_ then you will _never_ have it.”

Ra’s’ expression has tightened, turned to something sour and angry. “I was assured this was what you enjoyed. Your priests—”

“Only call themselves mine. War is a violent, bloody, painful thing, and I don’t encourage _worship_ of it.” He snorts, pushing off the table and straightening up to his full height. “And when they told you I wanted a sacrifice of a warrior, you chose your _grandson?_ Your bastard _heir?_ That doesn’t sound like tribute to me; it sounds like ritualized assassination.” He looks down, catches the gaze of the man looking up at him for just a moment before he looks back up and spits, “You take a soldier, your _family_ , and you think the way to offer him to me is to strip and bind him like some kind of _whore?_ ”

The mortal has the sense to take a step back, and he bares his teeth and growls with enough power to shake the room again to encourage the retreat. “We’re _done_ here. Even if you offered me anything I wanted, I refuse to give my favor to someone who ignores a warrior’s right to honor.”

“I did not intend offense,” Ra’s says. The words are careful and clearly specifically chosen. “I followed instructions I had no reason to believe were wrong; I apologize that you dislike my tribute; I can replace him with something—”

“Oh, I’m _taking_ your grandson.”

The moment of shock that freezes up the mortal is _really_ satisfying, as is the equally shocked, “What?”

He reaches over to lay his hand on the sacrifice — Damian’s — shoulder; it’s tense underneath his fingertips. “You gave him to me as a _gift_. He’s mine. You won’t get my favor, or blessing, or my help, and if _this_ is how you treat your family and your soldiers then you’re not fit to keep him either. I’m taking him; you are _not_ getting the chance to kill him in the name of some other god.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just closes his eyes and _pulls_ himself and his passenger through space, back to his dimension and the call of home. He hears the mortal cry out, and then settles them both carefully into his world, bringing them both back to physical bodies and placing Damian on his feet, free of the leather restraints he’d been under.

The mortal collapses, and he flicks his eyes open and catches the young man without a thought, lifting him with ease. One arm around Damian’s waist holds him upright, and he lets the other come up to the gag still pressed between those teeth. It’s trickier to transport someone away from things so close to their skin, and he didn’t want to take the time to be cautious about it, so the mortal is still… bound, in a few ways.

He snaps the leather with a touch, and pulls the broken cord and flat bit from Damian’s mouth. It parts on a gasp, jade eyes staring up at him in surprised wariness but with a hard, defensive edge. He recognizes it; he’s seen it on the face of a thousand warriors who never thought to come face to face with their god, and were never the worshipping type.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, tempted to put power into his words and make it a real _command_ , but opting for the gentler route instead.

He reaches down, towards the more intimate bondage, and the boy jerks when his fingers brush the trapped erection. There’s a gasp of, “ _Don’t_ —” and then the leather down there snaps under his touch like the gag did, and he pulls his hand away even as the mortal bucks and gives a tortured moan.

“Are you alright?” he asks, once the mortal’s breathing again. “Did they hurt you?”

The mortal is stiff, but gives a small shake of his head and says, “I am— I am fine, great lord. I—” The mortal’s teeth grit and a hard _shudder_ shakes that fragile body, a strangled groan escaping through clenched teeth. “It will pass,” Damian gasps.

His gaze falls down the length of that tense stomach to the flutter of the abdominal muscles, and then down to the flushed, dark, _agony_ of the erection jutting out. No longer bound, but still evident and _painful_ looking, as if it’s an actual injury and not a forced physical reaction.

Anger swirls in his gut, and he raises his hand to brush fingers over Damian’s cheek, thumb brushing the corner of that damp mouth. He has to fight the urge to turn around and go back for this mortal’s grandfather, to _demand_ whatever he can think of to best cripple the man’s world, because of this humiliation for the young warrior in his grip. For the forced pleasure, and the pain of denial.

He can fix at least one of those things.

“Stay still,” he orders again, keeping his voice soft, and then lowers his hand and actually wraps it around the jut of that erection.

Damian cries out, arching, but pushes a hand hard against the leather covering his chest and twists hips away from his hand. “No! I— Do not—!” The disjointed plea ends in a moan, but it’s enough to get him to pay attention and to not move his hand.

“I can finish it,” he says, holding that jade gaze, even hazy as it’s gone. “Relax, warrior; let me.”

The hand on his chest curls, nails digging into the leather as the mortal arches a little further, gasping, “I— I am untouched.”

He freezes for a moment, and then demands, “Why didn’t your grandfather tell me?”

He’s not positive when the mortals decided that virginity was such a desirable thing — experience makes for a better time, he’s found — but he also can’t deny that there’s a thrill to it. Being the first to touch someone speaks to all the parts of him that long to claim, to conquer, for _victory_ , but he hates the way that the mortals have decided that not being ‘innocent’ somehow makes you lesser. If _anyone_ has to be sacrificed to him — which they _don’t_ — at least he’s given warriors, not innocent, blushing, maidens who’ve never worked or seen real violence.

He didn’t expect that in this mortal. Usually males aren’t kept innocent — another thing that grates at him — and _warriors_ are almost never that way, especially not good ones. Victory tends to make them desirable.

Damian’s head twists, pressing against his shoulder as the mortal bares teeth — _sharp_ looking canines — in a snarl. “He wanted to offer it at the right time; to use it to gain _more_ from you.”

Anger sweeps up from his gut, and his jaw clenches at the idea of using family as a _bargaining chip_. “He’s lucky I don’t _curse_ him to never win another battle in his life,” he spits, and then breathes out, pushing the anger away until he can lock it down. His voice comes out steady when he meets his mortal’s eyes and says, “You’ll still be untouched; let me end the pain, mortal.”

He strokes before Damian can answer, sliding his hand up the length of Damian’s cock and down again, and the mortal cries out into his shoulder. The hand on his chest pounds against it, but he can barely feel the impact through his leather and he doesn’t let it phase him. Damian was given to him, _hurts_ because of it, and he can end that. It’s not like he’s pinning the mortal down and ravishing him against complaints; a handjob will hardly compromise the technicalities that mortals assign to the word ‘virginity.’

What a _useless_ concept to idealize.

It’s hardly any time at all before Damian is shaking, bucking into his hand and nearly _screaming_ into the leather covering his shoulder as he comes, wet and hot against his hand and the planes of that bared stomach.

“Easy,” he murmurs, dispelling the mess with a wave of his hand. He leans down, gathers Damian into both arms, and then takes a moment to reach out and locate where Roy is inside his realm before he heads that direction.

Damian doesn’t speak for awhile, but finally asks, “Am I yours now?”

“You were gifted to me,” he answers, and he catches the flash of a small snarl in Damian’s partially hidden mouth, still turned into his shoulder.

“That is a fact, not an answer,” the mortal points out, sharp and confrontational. “Am I _yours_ , god?”

He looks down, finding Damian’s eyes and then tracing the lines of blood drawn onto the mortal’s chest and arms with his gaze before returning. The jade eyes watching him demand answers, demand honesty, and he has no reason not to give it.

“Yes.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854345) by [Scarletbat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarletbat/pseuds/Scarletbat)




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